


Kissed with a Lie

by kat8cha



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Relatively Gen, but written with pre-OT3 in mind, written for Man from UNCLE kink meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 22:13:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4683278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kat8cha/pseuds/kat8cha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isabelle Baasch has a type, a type that Illya Kuryakin fits. Napoleon and Gaby are not sure that Illya has what it takes to sweet talk a mark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kissed with a Lie

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into English available: [Kiss with a Lie/唇上的謊言](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6830356) by [notthechosenone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notthechosenone/pseuds/notthechosenone)



> Written for [this prompt](http://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=51584#cmt51584) at the Man from UNCLE kink meme.

“Now, Peril, don’t forget to smile.” Napoleon says.

“I can smile.” Illya growls and then, to prove his point, he pulls his mouth into an approximation of a smile. It is garish, terrifying. Napoleon almost runs screaming from the room. “See? Smile.” Illya then lets his face fall back into its usual stoic manner and Napoleon waits three seconds for his heartbeat to drop back to tempo.

“You should complement her.” Gaby speaks up next. “Talk about her hair, women are always very proud of their hair. Or her jewelry, I suppose, if she’s wearing any.” Gaby does not twist the ring on her finger but it is a near thing. It is a new ring because Napoleon had claimed that no fiancée of his would wear so garish a ring as the one Illya had bought.

“I can do complements. You look very nice today. The color of your dress brings out your eyes.” It is all delivered in a monotone that has Gaby rolling her eyes and Napoleon groaning into his hands. 

They both acknowledge that this will be a disaster, they have no idea why Waverly wouldn’t be dissuaded. Illya they understand. Illya is stubborn and pigheaded, he still feels the need to prove himself, again and again, even though they should be done with that bullshit. After the sixth time he saved their lives he should have been done. But no, every challenge had to be met and conquered, every mountain climbed, every sheer rock face pounded into submission.

Suddenly, Napoleon remembers something. He raises his head so quickly he almost smacks the back of it into the back of the couch. “You know how to kiss, right?”

“What is- you-” While Illya’s cheeks did not flush Gaby could see the back of his neck turn red, “of course I can kiss.”

Gaby wonders if he was good at it. He hadn’t kissed her, yet, and she wonders if the final product would live up to the anticipation. 

“It’s alright if you’re inexperienced, Peril, if you really want to-”

Illya’s glare quite possibly could turn a man to stone, it certainly stops Napoleon in his tracks. Illya then stomps out of the hotel room, probably to go hide in his. Gaby swirls her drink around in her glass, wondering again about Illya’s refusal. Perhaps they should have asked him about that as well, surely the mark will. By all accounts she is quite fond of champagne.

“This,” Napoleon gets up to pour himself a drink of his own, “is going to go terribly.”

“You don’t know that.” Gaby insists, even though she thinks the same, when Napoleon shoots her a look she glares. “You don’t. I don’t. Not even Waverly truly knows how the mission will turn out.”

Although he was very, very good at predicting things. It was a bit eerie, to be honest. 

“I know this. Illya might be good at surveillance, and he’s terrifying in a fight, but an undercover operative?” Napoleon shook his head. “He couldn’t even charm you.”

“I don’t think he wanted to charm me.” Gaby admits. Illya had been… well, he had been charming later, like when he bought her the ring. He hadn’t been charming to anyone else, of course, although he had tried with her Uncle. Perhaps if her uncle hadn’t called him a cart horse... but Illya also hadn’t studied on his architecture. From what Napoleon had said he knew his science (how had he identified that part as something vital to refining uranium?) but he had never been convincing as an architect. How he would be convincing as a painter in search of a muse (and sponsor) was beyond Gaby.

The party was going to be a disaster.

She and Napoleon dress as if they are attending a funeral. Oh, not in black, they dress gaily, Napoleon even brings her roses, although she does not wear them, and a new necklace, which she does. They’re a riot of color, utterly in fashion and of the very best (American) taste but… they are very careful to tuck the tools of the trade away. Anything they might need to get out of a tight squeeze. Gaby wishes her dress was longer, she cannot quite hide a gun underneath it, instead the gun goes in her clutch which will be kept on her at all times. 

They do not meet Illya in the lobby, which would worry her except that he is always very defensive when they are meant to be undercover and not meet. 

They do not see him at the party either, not at first. They make the rounds, Napoleon introducing his fiancée, Gaby being as charming as she can (she is not, truly, terribly charming), both of them with eyes out for anything or anyone suspicious.

The sound of Illya’s laughter throws them.

Napoleon backs into a server and a tray of glasses and wine goes all over the floor. “I’m terribly sorry…”

“Oh, dear,” it’s Illya and Mrs. Baasch, she holds a hand to her cheek and he… he has his arm wrapped through hers, “I hope we didn’t startle you.”

“It was me,” Illya speaks up very quickly before Gaby or Napoleon can make excuses, “my mother always said I laugh too loudly. She said…” and he pauses, an expression on his face as if he was remembering his mother’s words, “that I laughed like a thunderstorm.”

Mrs. Baasch laughs like a chandelier, tinkling and brittle. “You do have a booming laugh. And, I believe, it shocked these two quite terribly.”

Illya leans close to look the older woman in the eyes. She was shorter than him by half a foot although her voluminous hair made up the inches. Still, she tilts her head to look up and it brought their faces into just the right angle for a kiss. “I hope I did not scare you, Isabelle.”

Isabelle blinks her large, watery grey eyes at him. “I told you, call me Belle.”

Illya drops his own eyelashes, not completely however, just enough that… Gaby feels her breath catch in her throat. That was devastating. Who taught him to do that? “You know, in French, that means beautiful.”

It was a terrible line. It couldn’t possibly work.

Mrs. Baasch’s breath sounded caught as well. “You are a flatterer.”

“Not at all, Belle.” Oh, so he was purring now? Gaby reaches out to grab Napoleon’s arm and was grateful to find he was still beside her, still the same. Although he was as starstruck as she was. (So too was the server who had stopped in mopping up wine and broken glass to watch his employee be seduced, so too were at least three other members of the party.) “I was sincere when I asked to paint you. You deserve immortalization.”

Immortalization. Exactly what those scientists Baasch was supposed to have working for were aiming for. 

“Yes, but I’ve never seen your art.” Isabelle laughs as she attempts to disengage from Illya’s seduction. “You could paint me as a Picasso.”

“I would paint you as a Baskakov. He is very realistic, you know.” Illya’s voice turned towards humor, teasing, no longer a husky seduction. “He has a very good grasp of color. I aspire to be as good, someday.”

“I’ve never seen a Baskakov.” Napoleon inserts into the conversation. “He can’t be that good.”

Illya snorts, strangely, Mrs. Baasch snorts too. This earns her a contemplative (but quickly hidden) look from Illya. “He is American.” Illya says. He smiles winningly at Baasch. “Their tastes…”

“Ah, yes,” Baasch gives Gaby a look this time, the kind of look Gaby is used to receiving, sadly, the kind of look that says ‘you can take the girl out of the chop-shop but you can’t take the chop-shop out of the girl’. “but come, sweetheart, if you think Baskakov is good I have much to show you.”

And Illya is drawn off by Isabelle Baasch, a notoriously picky woman despite her hunger for broad shouldered, tall, artistic blondes. Gaby realizes she is squeezing Napoleon’s arm. She does not stop. “What,” she questions, slightly breathless, slightly angry, slightly jealous, “was that?”

“That…” Napoleon catches two champagne flutes from a passing waiter, “was the best the KGB has on file. I suppose.” 

Their mission goes off without a hitch.


End file.
